


John

by Phiso



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Drug Use, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:12:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phiso/pseuds/Phiso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty said he was going to burn the heart out of him. He hadn't gotten it quite right, but it was close enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Tech, Kris, and Apple for the beta. Credit to hoc-voluerunt for the campaign idea.

It had been almost half a year since the Trial, the trial of the century that had begun with robberies and bombs and murders and had ended with a sniper's silent shot and a fall.

A trial that had started with a bang and ended with a whimper.

 

 

 

'John, can you pass me my phone, I need to send a text.'

It took Sherlock a minute to realize that John wouldn't answer.

Sherlock did that sometimes. He was too used to it. If a particular train of thought struck his fancy or his need for an object did not override his need to sit and think, he would speak and fully expect John to be there listening. Sometimes he wasn't, of course, and Sherlock was left unknowingly talking to himself. He was constantly forgetting about John's dates and nights at the pub with the boys and occasional trips to wherever it was that John went when he wasn't with him, but that was because they didn't matter to him. They were trivial pursuits, things normal people did to pass the time, and John did like to act normal. But Sherlock barely noticed the absences; John's presence in the flat was so strong it felt like he was always there.

Even now, as Sherlock smoothly rose from his usual seat and threw himself down on the couch, he could still see the indentions John had left on his chair.

 

 

 

His fingers reached for the black leather case before the thought had even occurred to him. It sat innocently enough on the coffee table, having been used the night before, and he considered his choices idly as he opened the case on his outstretch legs.

Which one, which one, he mused as a finger delicately ran down the cool glass of the syringe barrel. Strips of light escaped from the shut blinds, illuminating the contents of the case and shining temptingly on the metal needle. What did he want to do today, relive or forget?

It was a difficult choice.

 

 

 

Sherlock had relived that day more times than he could count. It was by far the most difficult and infuriating puzzle he had ever faced, and it was made all the worse because he could not solve it. He could crack government codes in five seconds, but this day remained a mystery, even after five months.

It wasn't for lack of trying, however. Sherlock had gone over every detail of the Trial and the events at least a thousand times; each memory had been handled so often it might have been buffered to a shine. Every second had been recorded in what Sherlock resolutely believed to be perfect accuracy - and yet, he still could not explain what had happened.

He had never felt so lost.

 

 

 

It had all started with a trial. No, the Trial, he corrected himself, in which he was the star witness. He, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and Moriarty's very own mirror. What Moriarty could have been, had he chosen differently. Or vice versa.

And John - _John_ \- had gone with him to the Trial. As his doctor, he made sure Sherlock ate and drank and didn't insult the lawyers and judge and jury too often; after all, it wouldn't do if someone murdered the star witness in front of everyone. All it took was a look or a cleared throat, and Sherlock would pull back with a sneer, not entirely willing to let go of the fight but also aware of the fact that this was a popularity contest on a certain level, and he had always been everything but.

 

 

 

John had been loved, though. Sherlock had always known that people considered the doctor the likable one and that his blog was popular, but he hadn't realized the scope of it until it came time for everyone to gather and pay their respects. He was sure that many of them had come simply to see the face of the man that had saved the great Sherlock Holmes, to soak in the misery in a repugnant show of Schadenfreude - the paparazzi was certainly energetic - but the police were keeping them back behind a blockade. Sherlock noticed that Lestrade  - Greg, John had called him - was out there instead of inside of the church, face haggard and smoking a cigarette, Sgt. Donovan beside him.

It was invitation-only, he knew; it was to avoid journalists and random passersby from sneaking in. The policeman at the door hadn't needed to ask for his name, however. It was obvious who he was. He expected to see the regular faces there: Mike Stamford, Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Bill Murray, some of Scotland Yard. A handful of other friends that Sherlock knew existed but had forgotten about. An old girlfriend or two that still thought fondly of him; Sarah, maybe. Something small.

He had been shocked to see so many. Even the dry cleaner from two blocks down had come.

Sherlock, of course, had been the last to arrive to the funeral, just in time for the final prayer. He had slipped into the pew closest to the door, inadvertently finding himself beside Anderson and Molly. Both of them had given him a look - Anderson's a strange mix of shock and something Sherlock couldn't quite place, Molly's one of pity - but he had said nothing and they had obliged. It was better than sitting by strangers, though he would have preferred to be alone.

Truthfully, Sherlock had considered not going. He had no desire to be surrounded by people he didn't know talking about a man he knew better than anyone, and he hadn't stepped into a church since that one case four years ago. It wasn't until he realized that he had spent the entire morning talking to the skull as if it were John that Sherlock decided to see if any of the old family stories could explain what his memories could not.

Sherlock had had no hand in arranging anything - that had all been Mycroft - but that was the day that he learned ex-serviceman did not have the right to a military funeral. That was also the day he truly understood just how much power Mycroft had in not only the British government, but the British Royal Forces as well. Harry had fought with Mycroft over how to handle the situation - he could tell by the way Mycroft wore his tie and the way Harry kept fiddling with her phone - but in the end, the Union Jack had been draped over John's coffin and a bugle had sounded as the coffin was taken to a car to be cremated.

When it came time to move him, Sherlock had automatically taken a step forward, his hand already extending in anticipation of the handle; when John's friends from medical school and his service days moved to carry the casket instead, Sherlock froze, sickening shock twisting in his stomach. His hatred for those men - and _Mycroft_ , the one who had given them that job in the first place when it was obvious that he was the most fit for the job - could only be rivaled by his hatred for one other, the one that had caused all this to happen in the first place. But the fury passed quickly and faded into a dull throb. It was his own fault for telling Mycroft he wasn't going to come, and even though his brother should have known better, he should have _known_ that he would have come in the end, Sherlock told himself that John wouldn't have wanted him to cause a show. It was the least he could do.

 

 

 

The Trial had been quite the show, however, he recalled vaguely as an arm slipped over the edge of the  couch and dangled, his fingers trailing the dusty wooden floor. For all that he hated the paparazzi and their incessant need to be in everyone's business, he had positively glowed at the stand, successfully managing to lower the self-esteem of the entire room within two minutes. Save, of course, Moriarty, who was the only other person there with a mind as quick as his own, and John, who had merely rolled his eyes, used to Sherlock showing off for the morons of the world.

Every time Sherlock remembered this part, he felt strange whenever he recalled how often he had called John 'normal', 'average', and an 'idiot'. He didn't like the feeling. It was like being wrong, but worse, and he couldn't put his finger on it.

Words had never failed Sherlock before the end of the Trial, and the testimony was no different. He had scoffed at the efforts of Moriarty's lawyers, answered questions that the state's lawyers hadn't even known they needed to ask, and was as self-important and smug as usual. The silences after his long responses and the stunned looks on everyone's faced has been immensely satisfying, but they didn't really matter. His main priority was Moriarty.

Moriarty, in his crisp, immaculate suits. Moriarty, who had etched his name into the walls and mirror while waiting to be interrogated. Moriarty, who had strapped explosives to John's chest and threatened to burn out his heart.

Moriarty, who had ultimately died and ultimately succeeded.

 

 

 

The case lay forgotten on his lap as Sherlock laid there, gazing at the ceiling with an unfocused stare. Bored with the little distraction the ceiling provided him, he turned his head lazily to the side, his gaze settling on a dark blue velvet box on the table. That was what had caused last night's morphine, but this afternoon, rather than producing a sharp pain, all it did was cause an ache.

 

 

 

He had found it after the memorial gathering. He hadn't even known of its existence until that day. The gathering had been filled with stories about John as a little boy ("he'd always been interested in sports, he started playing rugby when he was eight, but I remember when he was five he used to like to steal my cuddly toys and give them check-ups; did that until he was nine, he did") or about John as a medical student ("he was one of the fun ones; most people studied until they passed out, but John was always the one to insist on breaks to the pub, saying it would help our focus - and you know what, he was always right") and while Sherlock saw little use for such stories, he nevertheless mentally tucked these stories away as he mingled, intending to take them out for a more careful examination later. Look, John, he had thought to himself as he listened. Me. At a gathering. Voluntarily.

But after a while, these stories began to grate on Sherlock's nerves. For some reason, it had never occurred to the detective to imagine John before the war, and  the more he heard the more he realized why. The John attending primary school and the John studying at St. Bart's weren't _his_ John. They weren't anymore his John than the body he'd watched burn was. Sherlock wouldn't call his John kind, or thoughtful, or sweet, even though technically he was all of these things. No, his John was good. His John was brave. His John liked the taste of danger and wasn't afraid of him or his sharp tongue and had the patience beyond that of a saint. His John was _not_ normal, not the way they made him sound, and before long Sherlock was nearing the end of his ability to endure the sheer amount of stupidity in the room. If he had to hear _one more story_ about John as a teacher's pet, he was going to scream at someone.

But then he spotted them: the ex-servicemen. These were the men that would be able to tell him why he had joined the army when he could have done anything, gone anywhere. They were like him: they had had John at their sides when entering the battlefield, facing enemies and cheating death. They had seen John at his best and at his worst.

And they did not disappoint. Almost everyone else had been intimidated by Sherlock, some frightened into a silence by his brooding presence, and so he had been forced to eavesdrop in order to get anything from them. The soldiers, however, treated him like one of their own, in a way. He had not been abroad, but he had seen John kill for him and John risk his life for him. The only difference between them was that Sherlock was the only one that had seen John die for him.

These were the stories that left Sherlock feeling as though maybe he hadn't known John as well as he thought he had, and yet seemed so, so familiar. John giving up his sleep and volunteering to cover another man's watch so that his fellow could go Skype his family. John's long silence after his first kill. John running into the line of fire and scooping up a civilian child caught in the fray, because he'd be damned before he had to see an innocent die.

He had mended more soldiers than any of them could count, and while he had definitely been on the ground with the guns and bombs along with the rest of them, his crack-shot was nothing compared to his stitches. He had the stillest hands of any surgeon in the Fusiliers, and could literally remove bullets in the dark. One of the men there said the only reason he could still walk was because of John. Another two said they owed his life to him. His ability to adapt and cope with the Hellish environment was unmatched, they said. There had only been one night anyone had ever seen him close to cracking, and it was the night he had earned his Conspicuous Gallantry Cross.

This was news to Sherlock, but he hid the surprise well. He knew a considerable amount on campaign medals - they made reading the life stories of military officers at a glance much easier - and had always assumed John had one, but he had never seen any of his decorations. John had never spoken of his time in Afghanistan and Sherlock had never asked. Now, however, the detective was beginning to regret this decision.

The Cross. Sherlock almost reached out to touch the velvet box, but reconsidered. He didn't need to see it to recall the story, the story of how John had been the only doctor there when the platoon he commanded was suddenly ambushed in the middle of the night, how the battle had lasted for days, how man after man after man had been shot down or blown up and John was forced to carry and eventually drag them alone to treat them as quickly as he could, a soldier in one hand and a gun in the other, all while he and his Lieutenant tried their best to keep the rest of their men alive. How the numbers had dwindled as the supplies and ammo rapidly ran out as grenades rained down from all sides, and how halfway through John had been forced to evacuate the field hospital and leave his patients to die as an explosion ripped the tents apart. How he began working out in the open while continuously barking out orders, one eye on the men shooting in front of him and the other on the man suffering before him, his hands and face stained black and brown and red. How eventually, after 72 hours filled with nothing but bullets and blood, their enemy no longer stood, and neither could they.

There had been 100 men in his platoon when the ambush began. By the end, 66 remained, 26 of which had survived due to the medical attention John had given them.

 

 

 

Is this what your dreams were about, John? he always asked himself. Is this why you couldn't sleep, and why you never spoke of what happened? Because you couldn't save all your men, and you felt guilty?

Is this why you did what you did?

 

 

 

Those ex-servicemen were the only ones who learned anything about John from Sherlock that night. They were the only ones who were given the right to the end of John's story.

 

 

 

It happened while Moriarty was at the stand.

Sherlock had been listening to every word the Irishman had said with an intensity that bordered on obsessive. He had known Moriarty had a trick up his sleeve - no one with a mind like that would be content without causing some havoc in a place like a courtroom - and was determined to crack the code before the criminal could go through with it.

He hadn't been the one to decipher the clue, however. John had.

'Colonel Moran.'

Sherlock had been certain that the name had meant something, but at the time he couldn't figure out what. Was it a name? A codeword? An anagram? But not five seconds had passed before he'd heard John exhale sharply.

'Moran,' John had repeated, and Sherlock had turned to him, fiercely curious. To his surprise, John was staring back at him in horror, but not at his face. At his neck.

Sherlock was on the ground before he even knew what was happening; there was the sound of shattering glass as the room fell into darkness, and terrified screams filled the air. Sherlock tried to get up, to see what was going on, but John was too strong, and Sherlock grew angry as precious seconds were lost. Finally, as the lights flickered back on, John relented and Sherlock shot up, his eyes immediately focusing in on the empty witness stand.

Then there was running, lots of running. Sherlock was fast, but his mind was faster; he could see every detail of the halls in sharp detail, and knew at a glance where Moriarty had stepped. John was right behind him every step of the way.

'Shouldn't you be checking to make sure no one was shot back there? You're a doctor,' Sherlock had snapped, selfishly and childishly angry at being followed. He had wanted to face Moriarty alone, to finish this, and the last time John had stepped in he had -

'I'm _your_ doctor,' John corrected, panting. 'And anyway, no one was shot.'

'How can you tell?'

'There was only one shot fired, and it was at you.'

 

 

 

A finger gently tapped the top of the small bottle he knew contained the cocaine. This was where the clues failed him. This was where the results didn't make sense.

 

 

 

The roof. Dramatic, but expected. There was Moriarty, giving them that insane, lazy smile, evidently amused by the fact that John had followed Sherlock there.

'You've got a good pet, there, Sherlock,' Moriarty drawled.

A cold fury filled Sherlock, and he was in the middle of a retort when John had suddenly thrown himself to the ground. Shocked, Sherlock stared at the army doctor, who in turn was gazing at the bullet hole in the wall that had been behind him.

'Moran,' John panted, getting up. 'The best shot in the British army.'

'You know him?' Moriarty said with a smile, and John jumped again, narrowly escaping another bullet. 'Then you know he's missing on purpose.'

Sherlock was caught between looking at Moriarty and looking at John, terrified of missing yet another vital clue but unable to completely detach himself from his army doctor. Every time he tried to say something another shot was fired at John, and so he tried to focus on thinking instead, on trying to figure out what Moriarty wanted, because that was the only way they could hope to get out of here.

The bullets all come from the same direction, he remembered thinking, which will reveal Moran - and sure enough, there was a figure two buildings away, watching and waiting. He could see the man - pale, lean, dressed inconspicuously and crouched behind a sniper rifle - and immediately began pulling information. But the moment Sherlock had spotted him, John had cried out in pain; a spike of fear shot through his chest as he whipped around and saw John clutching his left arm, glaring at the same figure Sherlock had just seen.

And so it continued, with each shot getting closer and closer and forcing John nearer and nearer to the edge. Sherlock's mind churned option after option out but all of them had fatal flaws, and as Moriarty smirked at him Sherlock felt frustratingly, excruciatingly stupid. But it had all changed when John had produced his own pistol from seemingly nowhere and had fired three clear shots from the edge of the building.

They were too far away to do much damage, but John was a crack-shot himself and Moran fell back in pain, a hand pressed against the shoulder that absorbed the gun's recoil. Taking the window John had given him, Sherlock seized Moriarty by the suit jacket, hissing dangerously at the other man to stop this game and just _tell him what he wanted_.

But Moriarty had appeared alarmingly pleased about the situation, and it disarmed Sherlock more than he wanted to admit.

Then something slammed into his back, followed by an incapacitating fire spreading across his right shoulder. Sherlock lurched down and John tackled Moriarty, no bomb this time to hamper the soldier's movements. Swallowing the pain, Sherlock staggered forward, but Moran was back with a vengeance, firing a bullet in John's leg and another scraping Sherlock's, bringing the detective down to his knees. Moriarty cackled madly against John's grip, the two men now far closer to the edge than they were before, and Sherlock frantically tried to scramble back up to his feet, watching in horror as Moriarty's hands somehow found their way around John's neck, pinning the army doctor down against the ledge.

'Time to put your pet down, Sherlock,' he had laughed, a crazed look in his eyes as he began to squeeze. John had fought back, strangled sounds escaping him as Moriarty pressed down, and Sherlock lunged forward, his face white with fear.

'John, shoot - !'

And then the doors behind them had slammed open, a bullet had hit the army doctor in the arm, and John went down over the edge of the building, taking Moriarty down with him.

 

 

 

Why, was the eternal question. Why had John been so close to the edge at that point? Had he been anticipating that particular ending from the moment Moran had given him that warning shot, or had he simply been led there? Why couldn't he just have shot Moriarty? Had he gone over on purpose, or had it been an accident?

Oh John, why did you fall?

 

 

 

Sherlock had faced death before. This was nothing new to him. When he had believed Irene had died the year previous, he had mourned her in the only way he had known how, lamenting the loss of another mind as complex as his. His moods had been dark, his manner cold, and his words clipped, the violin and his cases being the only things that could pull him out of the blackness. But this was different.

This was _John_.

And John could be found in anything.

 

 

 

Moran had gotten away, but with Mycroft's help Sherlock had tracked him down three weeks after he had finished rehabilitation. No one had said anything when they found the ex-Colonel's body washed up at the edges of the Thames, mutilated and almost unrecognizable.

Sherlock spent the rest of his days cooped up in Baker Street, the windows drawn and the rooms silent. He had broken the bow of his violin eight days after John's funeral, and he had never bothered getting a replacement. Instead, he kept the instrument in John's room, left on the pillow John has used. The blog stayed up as a memorial; comments were left expressing condolences. And even though he hated himself every time he did it, Sherlock could not resist logging on to read the pages, his mind playing with the number 1895 as if it could mean something.

Mrs. Hudson had grown worried, but she didn't call Lestrade until the fourth month in, when Sherlock had ignored the rent for so long she was beginning to go into debt. Lestrade hadn't been much help at first, but after awhile he convinced Sherlock to review a case with him. And even though Sherlock lived in a strange world hovering between numb and anything but, the cases were different. He would say an observation, express his deduction, and he could still hear the shadow of John's voice in his mind, forever admiring his genius and forever racking him with a near-crippling guilt.

So, he mused, relive or forget.

It was a difficult choice.

Because if he was honest with himself, he knew remembering wasn't good for him, he knew it drew him in further and further into the inky black his mind wrapped itself in, but he had never felt as empty as he did when he allowed himself to forget.


End file.
